


The Heart in the Hearth

by Hazzapixie



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: 4 + 1, Alternate Universe - College/University, Architecture student!Clarke, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazzapixie/pseuds/Hazzapixie
Summary: 4 times Bellamy finds Clarke in the kitchen, and one time she finds him. Or, that uni au with too much tea.





	The Heart in the Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, I've been missing my hall during the holidays, and with the prospect of moving back in in a couple of weeks, I thought a one shot would be fun! I'm Australian, and while I originally set this in America I decided I was more comfortable with a slightly Aussie setting. So, if there are words or references you don't understand, thats why.  
> That being so, enjoy an entire fic centred around one of my favourite places in the world (I know, sad), and the babes we love.

**1.**

Bellamy didn’t recognise the girl seated at the kitchen table. It was late, the blurry digits on his alarm reading 3:05, and he had stumbled out of his room towards the hall kitchen, throat dry. The dim light from the kitchen lit the hall in an eerie hue, muffled by the dirty glass partition separating the room from the hallway. Bellamy paused, surprised to see someone in the kitchen at this time, especially on a weeknight. The girl didn’t notice him, even as she faced the door. Soft blonde curls framed her face, wispy flyaways forming a crown backlit by the streetlights outside. She must have been the new resident the college head informed him of earlier that week. 

The strange girl’s eyebrows were pinched, biting her lip in concentration. A laptop was set up before her, and Bellamy noted the slick curves and shiny chrome which marked it as expensive. Diagram covered notes were strewn across the table, like dead leaves in fall. Her pale face and the dark blue smudges beneath her eyes were emphasised by the luminous glare from the screen, and Bellamy could tell that this was not her first late night. 

The girl fidgeted in her seat, pulling her legs up beneath her and using a stylus on the trackpad to sketch a line or two. With her movement, Bellamy finished his observation and punched in the code to open the door, the motion sensor awakening the exhaust fan in the room. The girl startled, one of her golden locks falling into her face.

“Oh, hi,” she said, voice untouched by the early hour, and Bellamy winced as the combination of the fan and her voice grated on his tired ears. 

Bellamy grumbled something incoherent in lieu of a greeting, and shuffled towards his cupboard for a glass. 

The girl didn’t seem insulted at his lack of a proper reply, already having turned back to her work. 

A gulp or two of water later took the edge off Bellamy’s craving, the cool liquid waking him up as well as quenching his thirst. He moved from the sink to the space of wall next to the window, leaning back and gaining him a view of whatever was on the girl’s screen. A program he didn’t recognise was taking up the majority of the space, and as she typed commands lines appeared. The girl huffed in frustration as he watched, comparing a diagram on the table to the screen before erasing what she had just added to a growing image. 

The girl glanced back up at Bellamy, twisting her head to do so, and he noticed that her eyes were the colour of light denim, yellow flaring around the iris. 

“It’s a cross section of a wall, if you’re wondering. I’m doing architecture, and this is my hell.” She observed, her tone serious, but blue eyes twinkling. 

The gentle sound of traffic lapped the room, joined by the quiet tapping of the girl on her keyboard. 

“I’m Clarke by the way,” she said, back to facing her screen. “I just moved to this hall from over on campus. Don’t ask why.” 

Bellamy took another sip of his water before answering.

“Bellamy. Welcome to the Dropship.” 

 

**2.**

He could hear laughter emerging from the kitchen before he even left his room. It was thursday night, aka Nott Night, and most of the floor were pre-ing before walking down to the bar. Technically, as the floor RA, Bellamy was meant to stop drinking in the kitchen and encourage the group to move to the designated drinking room, but after his long week he couldn’t be bothered. The noise grew exponentially as he meandered closer to the gathering. Jasper saw him through the glass as he approached, and the lanky boy attempted to hide the coffee mug he was holding. He failed, quite spectacularly, sloshing the mixture of booze and juice onto the pretty brunette that was perched on the table next to him and earning himself a punch to the shoulder. Bellamy smirked and pushed open the door, only for the chattering to diminish as the inhabitants acknowledged his presence and worried he would be the regular spoil-sport. 

“So, are you going to kick us all out?” came a loud voice from the corner of the room. Bellamy looked over to Clarke, who was sitting precariously on the back of a chair, leaning back on the fridge. Her long hair was piled on her head in a messy bun, and the choker around her neck looked like it was pilfered right out of the 90’s. 

“And why should I do that, princess?” Bellamy responded, as he approached her and stole the bottle from her grasp, taking a sip with a smirk. 

“Because, mister, you’ve been know to be an old man when it comes to having fun.”

Clarke was a reluctant drinker, but she was outspoken when it came to protecting the rights of her friends to enjoy themselves, often grating on his authority in order to do so. 

“In that case, I guess I’ll have to confiscate this,” he motioned with the drink in his hand, and took another swig, eyebrows raised in challenge. 

Clarke scoffed, and Raven passed her another beer from under the table. Jasper, apparently sufficiently convinced he wasn’t going to get in trouble, started blasting music from his phone again and the chatter in the kitchen re-started. Clarke was still glaring at Bellamy for stealing her beer, and Bellamy still hadn’t looked away. She got up from her perch to stand in front of him and frowned, a cute crease forming on her brow. 

“You can’t just steal my drink, Bellamy.” 

“Oh? I thought it was one of the perks of being an RA. I’m sure a princess like you can afford another beer, what does it cost, three bucks?” He counted with barely disguised contempt. 

That was one of the main points of contention between them. His nickname had started accidentally, a mostly impartial comment on the crown like appearance of her hair in the sun. Princess wasn’t uttered with contempt until he overheard a conversation revealing she didn’t have to take out a HECS debt to afford her 5 year degree. Having gone to a fancy private boarding school and moving from one of the more expensive lofts on campus, Clarke seemed to think she was too good for the old Dropship. One or two more rounds of them butting heads had all but invited an air bitterness to accompany the interactions between the pair. It wasn’t often that Bellamy felt insecure about his financial situation. This girl, however, flitting about doing one of the most expensive courses in terms of raw materials alone, with the prospect of an actual career, made him and his Arts degree feel small. It didn’t help that they were only brushing shoulders because Bellamy got subsidised rent as an RA. He was a little prejudiced, yeah. But Clarke wasn’t any different from the entitled, privileged, white girls from his hometown. 

She gritted her teeth at the name, a flash of hurt crossing here features until they settled on anger, and she scowled.

“Whatever, Bellamy. Be a dick. Watch me care.” She pushed away from the bench they’d settled at and engaged Monty in conversation. Before long an intense political discussion had engulfed the room, Bellamy and Clarke firmly on opposing sides. 

 

**3.**

He found Clarke in her usual chair at the table, closest to the window. Her small hands were shaking as she cradled a cup of tea and he could just see her red puffy cheeks from under a curtain of limp blonde hair. She didn’t move when he entered, putting on the kettle for himself and finding a carrot in the fridge to crunch. It was only when he pulled up a chair at the table that she raised her head. Bellamy had never seen Clarke look so dead, even after finding her in the kitchen the morning after working through the night. Her hair refused to form the halo of light it usually did, and her bruised eyes barely saw Bellamy. 

“Hi.” Her voice was quiet, strained from crying. 

“Hi.” 

As an RA, it was Bellamy’s job to look out for the emotional welfare of the members on his floor, even the ones he didn’t particularly like. 

That being the case, he asked after her wellbeing. It took Clarke a second to register his question, and she only smiled feebly, lips stretched over teeth rather than her usual toothy grin. 

“Since you’re asking, I’m fine. Just rich, white girl tears, right?”

Bellamy hadn’t been particularly quiet about his issues with the class system. 

When he didn’t respond, she huffed slightly and pushed her chair back to stand, the plastic feet scraping loudly on the lino. 

An image flashed before him, and instead of Clarke, a younger girl with long dark hair and smudged makeup stood in her place, eyes that looked akin to his own trained on the scuffed flooring. With a surge of emotion Bellamy stood as well, stopping Clarke with an outreached hand before she could leave. 

“Clarke, look. There’s no one else around, and I don’t want to leave you alone like this. Please, just sit. I’ll make you a fresh tea.” He pleaded. 

Unsure, Clarke caught Bellamy’s eyes, trying to discern in their depths whether he was being genuine or not. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she sat back down again, but not before pulling her legs up and wrapping arms arms around herself. 

While he puttered around with the tea, he gave some time to compose herself. By the time he placed a steaming cup in front of her she had mostly gained her breathing under control. Even then, it took a minute before she started to speak, Bellamy waiting patiently.

“It’s the two year anniversary of my dad’s death today.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bellamy started, a bit ashamed at the hard time he had been giving her that week, but he was stopped by a wave of her hand. 

“It’s not that - well,” she paused, “It is that, but not only. I was just on the phone with my mother.”

Something about the way she said it, accompanied by the micro expressions of anger and hurt flitting across her face reminded Bellamy of how he thought of his father. He leaned forward. 

“I love her. I know she loves me, and loved dad, but she’s just so cold. She told me if I didn’t get a job she would cut me off. She can’t stop paying for university, because that was the money that dad left for my education, but everything else. It’s not about the money though, it’s her lack of faith in me. I try so hard,” a tear fell onto her cheek, and her breathing began to quicken, but still, she continued.

“So. Hard. To be a good daughter, but I’m always a disappointment. I don’t get good marks, I don’t ring home enough. I can’t hold down a simple fucking job. She’s this amazing doctor, who got herself through uni and life. And she expects me to do the same. But I just can’t.” 

Clarke looked down at her shaking hands, tears falling freely now, and Bellamy could spot the signs of an anxiety attack coming on. Slowly, so as not to startle her, he rose from his seat and went round to sit next to her, placing a comforting hand on the small of her back. When she didn’t pull away, instead leaning into the hand, he shuffled closer and pulled her in. While he felt somewhat awkward about the situation, it was hard not to feel warm when she burrowed into his embrace, face smushed against his sternum and knees pressing into his stomach. He made his breathing as deliberate as possibly, and rubbed slow circles into her back. Clarke’s breaths were still coming too quickly, so he murmured to her softly, encouraging her to breath in time with him.

It took a while, but Clarke calmed down and the only sounds that permeated the kitchen were her soft sniffles. Bellamy was still holding her shuddering figure when he noticed someone at the door, and he shook his head slightly so Monty wouldn’t intrude. Bellamy knew more people would be coming back from class and would want to use the kitchen, so he pulled back slightly to look at Clarkes face. She opened her eyes as he did so, a little embarrassed. 

“Hey, I’ve got a pretty good set up in my room, if you want to chill with me and watch some Netflix. A good British cooking show was just added and I’ve been meaning to start it.” 

Clarke saw he was offering her both a distraction, and an escape, and she nodded, unravelling herself and standing. She let out a choked laugh as they both went to leave the kitchen, and Bellamy glanced at her. 

“I’m so ridiculous, aren’t I.” 

“Nah, you’re just human. My last panic attack was last thursday over a burrito.” And the fact his sister was moving across the country. At 18. With a man many years older. In any case, he got another chuckle out of her as they moved to his room.

His carrot lay forgotten behind them. 

 

**4.**

Things had changed between Bellamy and Clarke after that afternoon. The snarky comments hadn’t subsided, but instead of being barbs they were friendly. An afternoon of tears and Netflix was apparently what was needed to show Bellamy that Clarke was just as screwed up as the rest of them, and without his antagonism they fell into an easy friendship, if only really confined to the kitchen. 

Alcohol throbbed through Bellamy’s veins, seeping into his brain making the world around him soft, dripping down his legs as it took more effort than usual to walk straight. The ding of the elevator caught him slightly off guard, and Bellamy bid his friend Miller goodnight as he walked out onto his floor. They had been out at a bar. It was late. Most people would be asleep by that time, or at least tucked into bed binging Netflix. Bellamy himself had work in the morning, so a couple of litres of water were required to sober him up somewhat and replenish all the water he had lost over the course of the night. Not surprisingly, there was already someone in the kitchen. 

It seemed to Bellamy that Clarke was in that little kitchen more than she was in the shoebox regarded as a room by the uni. It was common to see her head of soft blonde waves leaning over a book or laptop, typing away or just enjoying the soft companionship of others while she did her own thing. This was one of the nights where she had obviously been studiosuly at work for several hours already, and Bellamy would bet she would only get an hour or two of sleep that night. It always worried him, but Clarke thought it was worth it to get a good grade. Architecture students were known for their lack of sleep.

His heart warmed at the sight of her, bundled in a large sweater and face pinched in concentration. Bellamy was sure the mug beside her was filled with green tea, probably untouched for the past hour. 

They exchanged easy greetings as he ambled around the kitchen, filling a large bottle from the tap. He offered to reboil the kettle, and Clarke took a sip from the mug, scrunched up her face adorably at the unexpected taste of cold tea, and nodded. 

Instead of sitting down opposite her, Bellamy took up residence leaning against the wall like when they first met, gazing at her screen. He now recognized the various programs she flittered between, drawing up plans and sections for the her next assignment due that morning. Clarke had complained more than once about the neverending barrage of work due, envious of his assignment schedule and essays he could fill with waffle. Bellamy however would exchange his five or so final exams with her portfolios. That type of creative thinking wasn’t really his thing though, he prefered the comfort of analysing history. 

As he regarded her latest project, Bellamy noticed the tenseness along her shoulders and neck. With the hand not holding his water, he reached out and placed a gentle touch on her shoulder, rubbing softly to provide some comfort. He may have been drunk, but he still knew how to relax his friend. Clarke in turn covered his hand with her own, sighing and resting her cheek on their hands.

The kettle began its ritual of bubbling and releasing steam, and Bellamy asked after the latest design. 

The heaviness of the night seemed to lift from her face, her features brightening as she spoke of inspiration from public housing initiatives in the 70’s, the use of light in some architects designs, tying it together with notes and sketches for her own public pool system. No matter how many late nights Clarke endured, it was obvious to see she loved what she was studying, ever enthusiastic and eager to create change. 

In that alcohol loosened moment, Clarke’s face radiant as she explained her designs, Bellamy couldn’t help the thought that crept in. It found a home in a small crevice of his mind, the one that held memories of fond arguments, sly smiles, and honest tears. 

In the morning he wouldn’t even remember thinking it, although the feeling would stay with him, living on as the warmth in his chest. 

_I think I love her._

 

 **+1**

The night was young, and Clarke was hungry. It had been a long day, and a very stressful one. The final portfolio of the semester had been due that afternoon, and Clarke only finished it two hours before it was due. She ended up having to bus out to the closest Officeworks to print and bind the 50 odd pages, bussing back to uni and leaving the folio in the intake box with her tutors name on it with only a minute to spare. A couple of others in her tutorial were milling about, commiserating about lack of sleep and expensive printing prices. Clarke, however, had no wish to spend even a second more of her break on campus. 

Finally free, Clarke wandered out of the architecture building. Around her was the bustle of student life, exasperated by the doom of finals seen on the faces of anxious students and study groups scattered on the greens. Clarke ignored food outlets in campus center as she powered past, the prospect of hot tea and a sun warmed bed beckoning her home. Pace set with that thought, Clarke soon found the Dropship towering before her, right on the edge of campus. The very sight of the tall brick building, ever imposing, brought joy to Clarke’s heart, as she thought of the home she had made there. Even the old elevator which insisted on adding valuable minutes to her journey couldn’t put a damper on Clarke’s jubilation. Not a couple of minutes later she was sitting on her bed in bliss. A sip or two or tea later, she was out cold, exhausted. 

When she woke up, it was almost 6pm, and her stomach reminded her with a gurgle he hadn’t eaten since that morning. The room around her swayed slightly as Clarke sat up in bed, woozy and dehydrated from her nap. She staggered through the hall, scuffing her bare feet along the carpet, before reaching the kitchen. Bellamy was inside, stirring a pot of the stove. She brightened at the sight of his unruly curls and solid frame, coming up beside him to see what was cooking. Two pots faced her, one with pasta and the other with a simmering sauce. That was the one that smelled heavenly. Clarke wouldn’t call herself a good cook, the freezer full of microwave meals and teasing everytime she tried to cook her signature pasta with tomato sauce could attest to that. It wasn’t her fault, really. Her mother never took the time to teach her. Or at least that was her excuse. 

Bellamy, however, was an amazing cook. He tried to deny it, but every time he made himself dinner the entire floor was salivating. He actually utilised spices, unlike the majority of students learning how to cook for the first time on their own. The best days were when he made Filipino dishes like Sinigang or Adobo, and invited others to try some. 

The chef in question turned away from the stove and passed the wooden spoon to Clarke with a smirk at her interest. Bellamy began to mince some fresh herbs he had picked from the communal garden, probably the only one to actually use it. Clarke took up the mantle of stirring eagerly, and snuck a finger into the mixture to have a taste. An explosion of flavour filled her mouth, and she couldn’t help but let out a cliched sigh. A second later Bellamy scraped the herbs into the simmering sauce and drained the pasta into the sink. 

“Hungry?” Bellamy asked, as he pulled a bowl from his cupboard. Clarke nodded vigorously, just as her stomach gurgled. Bellamy chuckled, but she couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed, especially not with the prospect of dinner. With another bend he had out another bowl, as well as two forks, and then turned to get cheese from the fridge. 

After plating up, Clarke and Bellamy took their seats opposite each other, Clarke in her usual spot.

“Here’s to you finishing second year,” Bellamy toasted, raising his fork in the air in lieu of a glass. 

It struck her then, touched as she was that he remembered the folio was her last for the semester, that her time at the Dropship had come to an end. She wasn’t going to hang out in that kitchen anymore. Her flight back home across the country was booked for the next day. 

Bellamy, ignorant of her internal realisation at the impending end of everything she knew and loved, continued. 

“It must be nice to know you can finally catch up on some sleep!”  
Clarke twisted her fork in her bowl of pasta pointlessly, considering bringing up her thoughts, but let it slide. Instead, she just started to eat. 

They chatted as Clarke absolutely devoured the meal, unable to stop after she began. She was starving. Clarke stopped just shy from licking the bowl clean, and looked up to see Bellamy smiling, amused. 

The dinner and conversation had calmed her somewhat, and even though she was done, she still didn’t want to leave the gentle companionship of Bellamy. Instead, she ditched her bowl by the sink and set about making a tea for herself, and instinctively, one for Bellamy. 

At that moment he was walking Clarke through one of the papers he had to write for his ancient history subject. It was in a couple of days, but he found it easier to prepare if he told someone about the various skirmishes and dates. Clarke didn’t know much about that period of Japanese history, but she still prompted him to explain his analysis of various sources. All the while, she was dwelling on their friendship. 

It was odd. Bellamy and Clarke barely spoke outside the confines of the kitchen. They nodded to each other if they saw each other out, or exchanged some words if they were both in the elevator, but there was something about those four walls that seemed different. Oftentimes it was just the two of them, sitting eating dinner, or Bellamy joining her while she worked into the early hours of the morning. Chatter on the floor said that Bellamy wasn’t seen very often, not staying in the kitchen after finishing his meal, and gently refusing to hang out with the group. It was different if Clarke was there though. Clarke didn’t know if anyone else knew about their late night chats, but everytime she was set up preparing for an all-nighter, she anticipated him leaning against the wall beside her, comfortably sharing jokes and discussing politics, history, even cars. Their friendship, close as they were, was centered around that kitchen. 

Which is why she made a tea, refusing to leave the room until he did. The printed plane ticket and bag ready to be packed waiting in her room reminded her of the finality of that evening. It was probably the last time she would see Bellamy for the summer. Or worse, considering he had told her about getting a place with Miller and had even found a cheap house a couple of suburbs away, the prospect of never seeing him again was quite possible. Just dwelling on that thought made something inside her ache. 

Bellamy was still talking Japan when Clarke gently sat back down, placing the steaming mugs on the table. He pause mid sentence when he noticed the downcast appearance of her face. 

“Clarke?” He asked, worried.

“Hmm?” She realised how her grim her look must have been, and fixed on a smile.

She looked at his concerned expression, his big doey brown eyes partially obscured by a furrowed tan brow, his constellations of freckles sprinkled over his face, and heaved a sigh. 

“I’m fine. It’s just, don’t you think it’s weird,” she murmured, taking a sip of her early grey, “that at the start of the year we were so antagonistic towards each other? I can barely remember why now.” 

Bellamy, obviously marking her earlier sorrowful expression as mere contemplation, smiled and answered. 

“I think it had something to do with my pigheadedness, and your inability to accept someone didn’t like you.” Bellamy replied, with more brutal honesty than she anticipated. “Though it was you crying all over me that changed that.”

Clarke cringed at the memory of that afternoon, remembering the way even a word from her mother could cause such pain and anxiety. The gentle way that Bellamy had consoled and comforted her had seemed to surprise both of them.

“And,” She continued, not quite sure what she was trying to say, “it’s weird that we only seem to hang out when we’re here, in the kitchen.” 

Bellamy paused, perplexed by the sentiment. Quizzical eyebrows drew together, as if maybe he was just realising the fact himself.

“You know, I’ve never noticed that. But,” he said, leaning his chin onto clasped hands, “my nanay, er, my mum, used to say that the kitchen was like the heart of a home. It’s easier to be yourself when you’re amongst food.”

“My mum used to say that the kitchen is the cook’s domain and I shouldn’t get in the way searching for snacks.” 

That got a chuckle out of Bellamy, his fond eyes trained on Clarke. 

Clarke shuffled in her seat, the room suddenly felt very hot, especially with the tea sitting warmly in her hands and stomach. 

“I’m going to miss you when you’re gone, you know.” Clarke admitted, tearing her gaze from Bellamy’s face and looking behind him to the door. 

“It’s not like I’m an exchange student Clarke, I’m still going to be here, still attending this uni.” He responded, confused. Again. She was making quite a mess of this. 

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Clarke didn’t know what she meant. She just knew that Bellamy was the only one who seemed content to sit and chat with her while she worked, distracting her when needed, or giving words of encouragement when she felt the wall section would kill her. No one else would listen to her rant about architecture like Bellamy, who always asked intelligent and interested questions even if he didn’t quite understand. Or was able to engage her in the topic of moral philosophy and the reading he had just completed. No one else could make her laugh when she felt engulfed with anxiety quite like Bellamy could, or talk her down from the edge of a panic attack. And certainly, no one else offered her dinner.

She didn’t know what she meant, so she told him exactly that. 

The words spilled out of her, and Clarke knew that it was a confession of sorts. She still refused to look at Bellamy, to see the look of pity that was sure to grace his beautiful and delicate features. She didn’t want to see how he was shocked and disappointed in himself for leading her on, as he was sure to blame himself. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast in her chest, hands clammy and shaking. 

Finally, she gained the courage to peek up. Instead of seeing her anxieties, she saw the most wondrous sight. 

Bellamy looked over at Clarke with such adoration that she could hardly bear to keep eye contact. His tanned cheeks were tinged with pink, self conscious at her attentions and admission, eyes scrunched slightly.

“I-” he started, unsure for someone who was usually so confident in himself. He began the sentence again, a little flustered, but as he spoke his regular charm started to emerge. 

“Well, you do have my number, I’m not lost forever. But, with that last point, I’m sure we can continue the tradition when you get back, with dinner? Out?”

Clarke’s sweaty palms and heavy breathing were ignored as a wide grin spread over her face, one that was mirrored on Bellamy’s. 

“I think I could deal with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> That's all folks! If you want a continuation just holla, but I'm pretty happy with how I've left it. Find me on tumblr at blissandbellamy.tumblr.com or my normal blog hazmatilda.tumblr.com if you want to cry about the upcoming season with me. (I've got an architecture blog as well if you want to hit me up about that ;) )  
> \- Hazzapixie


End file.
